Death Trance (38 page)
'I never said he was a guru, Dennis. Who told you he was a guru?’
Chief Moyne blustered, 'You said it yourself. A half-caste guru, that's what you said. Now why don't you come around to see me tomorrow, when we can discuss this rationally?’
'I can't come around to see you tomorrow because my friend has been deprived of his liberty tonight, and besides, that Waverley God almighty Graceworthy may take it into his head to get rid of him.’
'What kind of implication is that?’ Chief Moyne wanted to know.
'It's probably slanderous,’ Randolph retorted. 'But I can prove it, and if you ask me, so can you. Waverley Graceworthy has been pulling your strings too damned long, Dennis, and it's time you stopped dancing.’
Chief Moyne said quietly, 'I choose to forget that remark, Randy. I can understand that you made it in the heat of the moment.’
'I don't want you to forget it, Dennis. I want it to burn in your brain like a branding iron.’
'Listen, Randy,’ Chief Moyne said, uncomfortable now, 'let me send you one of my senior officers. Maybe you can talk it out with him.’
'I don't need to talk about it, Dennis. I know what's going on; I wasn't born yesterday, and I'm not about to die tomorrow. I want you to send a team out right now, and I want you to surround Waverley Graceworthy's home, and I want my friend brought out of there alive.’
Chief Moyne blew a long, slow breath. 'Well, I'm sorry, Randy. I can understand your ire, but I couldn't do anything like that, not without a properly sworn warrant, and even then, I'd be risking my job.’
'Believe me, Dennis, I'll break you for this if it's the last thing I do,’ Randolph warned him. 'We were supposed to be friends, you and I. We've had dinner together, gone fishing together, watched ball games together. I respect you - or at least I used to respect you - because you were always independent and you always upheld the law, no matter what. No matter what, Dennis, you always did! And now listen to you. My friend has been kidnapped and you know as well as I do who's responsible. And yet you won't move. You're frozen. Because, Jesus, Dennis, you don't move one inch these days unless Waverley Grace-worthy gives you the nod.’
Chief Moyne said in a voice scarcely his own, 'My daughter had cancer, Randy. You know that. She was three years at Baptist Memorial before she died. So, you know, don't talk to me about respect.’
'You won't do it, then? You won't go out to Waverley's house and get my friend?’
'No, sir.’
Randolph licked his lips and found they were dry. He was beginning to feel that he was standing on an island that was gradually being cut away underneath his feet. Inch by inch, turf by turf, until there was nothing left but the black and threatening sea.
He said gently, 'You go off to your ball, Dennis,’ and then he put down the phone.
He sat at his desk for a minute or two before picking up the phone again and calling Wanda. 'You were right about Chief Moyne. He won't respond. Waverley paid his daughter's hospital expenses.’
Wanda said, 'I didn't know that. What happened to his daughter?’
'She died,’ Randolph said bitterly.
Michael woke up and it was dark. He groped around until he found a bedside table and then a lamp. He switched on the light, sat up and looked around. He had been dreaming that he was in Bali, in the room he used to live in with his mother after his father had burned himself to death. The roof had been constructed of corrugated iron, and every morning the roosters had walked across it with a scratching, metallic sound that had frightened him.
But he was not in Bali. He was lying on a single bed in a small room at the far end of the upstairs corridor in Waverley Graceworthy's mansion. He touched the walls and wondered if the room had ever been used to imprison anybody else because there was no wallpaper, just bare brown plastering, and someone had scratched a long row of marks into it as if marking off the days. Or even the weeks?
There was a basin with a faucet that constantly dripped, a small window covered by slatted plastic blinds, a table with a battered top and a chair with a broken back. Michael climbed off the bed and went across to the window, where he parted the blinds and peered out, but there was little to see. A large triangular section of tiled roof, the side of a dormer window and the glow of one of the carriage lamps that illuminated Waverley Graceworthy's driveway. The silhouetted top of a large cotton wood tree. The reflected red gleam on a window of an automobile's tail-light.
Michael tried to open the window but the sash had been screwed into the frame. He stared out for a while longer, then let the blind snap back and went to sit on the edge of the bed. He said a prayer to Sanghyang Widi, and to Yama, and he wished he had learned the sacred art of making himself invisible, which his
oldpedanda
had always claimed that he himself was unable to do. Total sublimation of the self, total denial of the ego, total humility both physical and spiritual, that was the secret. Then the body would simply vanish.
He had smoked the last of his cigarettes. Well, he had wanted to give them up anyway. He had started smoking after his first serious accident with leyaks. His
pedanda
would have frowned on him for smoking, but by then he had lost his aspirations to be a priest. He had lived only for the sake of living, for finding out what he was supposed to be doing in this world, a half-caste Balinese-American living in Denpasar with no money, very little skill and a natural ability to talk to the dead. It was not the sort of curriculum vitae that guaranteed success in any walk of life. 'Oh, yes, and what did your father do?’ 'He set fire to himself because he couldn't understand why he shouldn't.’
There was no mirror in the room and Michael began to wonder what he looked like. Pale probably, with tousled hair and a fifteen hours' growth of beard. He knew he was sweaty. The room was insufferably close and he began to imagine that he could not breathe. He took shallow, panting breaths, hoping they might help him eke out the oxygen longer. He wondered what it had been like for those Indonesian women who had been bricked up inside their husbands' shrines. He had seen death from both sides of the grave and he still found it frightening and difficult to understand, an extraordinary transition from flesh to spirit, a dismemberment of body and soul, always tragic and always perplexing. Perhaps the' most tragic and perplexing part about it was that the dead were not safe even when they were dead. The world of the living and the world of the dead were equally crowded with princes and predators. Death, like life, was a swarming hierarchical pyramid of privilege and pain, of attainment and punishment, of agony and rishes, at the top of which the gilded gods resided with their serene and idiotic smiles.
It was the gradual erosion of his faith in the gods that had made death trances more dangerous for Michael. He knew that Reece and his men had not been entirely to blame for what had happened at the Dutch Reform Cemetery in Denpasar. His own lack of celestial purity had alerted the leyaks too, and that was the reason they had not only been swarming close by, but lying in wait for him at the very place he intended to go.
He went to the washbasin after a while and splashed his face with cold water. He drank a little of it out of his cupped hands. He was just drying his face on the shoulder of his T-shirt when the door was noisily unlocked and opened and Waverley Graceworthy came in, closely followed by Reece.
'Well, well,’ smiled Waverley. 'I hope you've been comfortable.’
Michael said, 'I could use a cigarette.’
Waverley gave Reece a backhanded beckon and Reece tossed Michael a fresh pack of True with a mocking smile that seemed to mean, 'Sorry they're not your regular dog-shit brand.’ Waverley watched Michael patiently as he tore open the pack, tapped out a cigarette and lit it.
'I came to ask you if you might have changed your mind,’ Waverley said. 'It does seem rather foolish, doesn't it, for you to spend day after day incarcerated here when a simple favour would not only make you wealthy, but ensure your release?’
'Do you honestly think I trust you to let me go?’ Michael asked.
'My dear friend, you have my word on it.’
Michael shook his head. 'The answer is still no. All you're offering me is a choice of ways to die. At least if I suffocate to death in this room, or if you decide you've had enough of me and shoot me, my soul will go to heaven and the chances of my being devoured by the Goddess Rangda will be slight rather than certain.’
Waverley sat down on the edge of the bed. 'I do find it amazing that you actually believe in these things. The Goddess Rangda! Now
she
sounds fearful!’
Take it from me, she is fearful.’
Waverley traced a pattern on the floor with the tip of his cane. 'And the answer is still definitely no?’
The answer is still definitely and positively no.’
'Well, you know, that gives me some difficulty,’ Waverley said. 'And the difficulty is that your patron, Randolph Clare, has been making inquiries about you and insisting that the police department search my premises in the rather optimistic belief that they might find you here.’
'What's optimistic about that?’ Michael asked. 'I am here, aren't I?’
'You are at the moment, dear boy. But whether you will still be here when the police make their search tomorrow depends entirely on you.’
Waverley paused for a moment and then added, ‘The chief of police is an excellent chum of mine, you see, and he believes that he has been able to stall Mr Clare for tonight. But Mr Clare, for all of his trespasses, still has money and influence, and if he demands that a search be made… well, the chief will have to do it, and I will have to accede to it.’
Michael said, 'Put that into plain English.’
'It's very simple. If you don't agree to take me into a death trance by seven o'clock tomorrow morning, you and Reece will be taking a scenic drive together and only Reece will be coming back.’
Michael smoked his cigarette in silence. Then he blew out a last sharp blast of smoke and crushed it out on the vinyl-tiled floor. The answer is still no.’
Waverley sighed and stood up. 'Well,’ he said, 'you have eight hours to think about it. Seven hours and fifty minutes, to be precise.’
Waverley and Reece left the room, locking the door behind them. Michael eased himself back onto the bed and lay there staring at the ceiling, his head propped on his hands. There was an elaborate crack in the plaster that reminded him of the outline of Buddha's face. Buddha, the peaceful. Michael had seen death but he wondered what it was going to be like to die. He had never asked any of the spirits he had met whether it hurt or whether you simply closed your eyes, then opened them again and discovered that you were dead.
Less than a quarter of a mile away, outside the gates of Waverley's mansion, a black Cadillac limousine drew up to the curb on Elvis Presley Boulevard in the shadow of a trailing sassafras. Randolph, in the rear seat, leaned forward and tapped Herbert on the shoulder. 'Stay here for an hour. If we're not back by then, call the police. The best man to speak to is Captain Ortega, if he's around.’
'Yes, sir,’ Herbert said and then turned around to say, 'Are you sure this is wise, what you're doing? I hope I am not impertinent in asking.’
Wanda was in the back of the limousine with Randolph. Randolph was wearing jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. Wanda was dressed in black corduroy slacks and a dark blue blouse. Randolph carried a flashlight, although at this moment he would have preferred a gun.
Randolph said, 'Herbert, you're right, this is probably crazy. But the police are not helping us find Michael and by the time they do, Waverley will probably have moved him someplace else or killed him.’
'Well, you're the boss,’ Herbert said. But he tapped the digital clock on the Cadillac's dash and said, 'One hour only. Sixty minutes and no seconds. Then I call for assistance.’
'You got it,’ Randolph told him and climbed out of the car, with Wanda close behind.
They crossed the highway until they reached the gates of Waverley's mansion. The gates were closed and they opened only from inside the house but Randolph knew from previous visits that Waverley had no security cameras or alarms on the grounds. The house itself was well-protected, with three Dobermans prowling the courtyards, but Wanda had brought along something they hoped would distract the dogs: ten pounds of sirloin steak from Randolph's freezer, hurriedly defrosted in the microwave.
Together they walked along the brick perimeter wall of! Waverley's property, trying not to be conspicuous. It was j a humid, airless night and the trees in Waverley's grounds stood as still and silent as if cast out of bronze. In the (distance, off to the northwest, Randolph could hear the faint crackle of fireworks as Memphis celebrated King Cotton. An occasional car slashed by along the boulevard, paying them no attention. Randolph prayed that they could get into the grounds before a police car came past. A man and a woman walking along Elvis Presley Boulevard at close to midnight with a flashlight and ten pounds of steak would undoubtedly be liable to questioning, if not to summary arrest.
'Here,’ he said. They had reached the corner of the property where the front wall and the side wall were joined by a tall pillar of large stone blocks. Because time and traffic pollution had eroded the pointing between the blocks, it was comparatively easy to climb up, using the crevices for toe and finger holds.
Randolph glanced around and said, 'You go first. I'll help you up.’
He tossed the plastic bag full of meat over the wall. Then he lifted Wanda as high as he could until she managed to catch a grip on the stone blocks. It took her only a few seconds to scrabble her way up to the top and roll herself over. Randolph heard her drop down lightly on the other side.
Randolph was about to climb up the wall himself when a car appeared, driving slowly north. It drew up beside ‘ him and the window went down. There were three men in the car, heavy-set and serious-faced. The man in the front passenger seat beckoned to Randolph and said, 'Hey, buddy.’
Randolph walked over but kept his distance.
'Did we pass the Elvis Presley home yet?’ the man asked.
'It's back about a half-mile,’ Randolph told him. There are plenty of signs you can follow, but it's closed at night.’
'Oh, that's okay. We're in Memphis for a convention and our wives made us promise to visit Graceland and lay a few flowers on the memorial, so what we're aiming to do is drive past and toss these roses over the fence.’
The man in the back-seat held up a bunch of bedraggled yellow roses.
'I always tell my wife the God's-honest truth,’ said the man in the front passenger seat.
'Well, that's very wise,’ Randolph said and stood on the sidewalk watching while the car U-turned and headed south towards Graceland. As soon as its tail-lights had vanished, he ran back to the corner of Waverley's property and began to scale the wall.
It was more difficult than he had imagined. He was still stiff and bruised from his encounter with the leyaks, and Wanda was ten years younger than he and played regular games of squash. He heaved and grunted, tearing one of his fingernails as he neared the top, but at last he managed to swing first one leg over the coping stones and then the other. He dropped down into the darkness of Waverley's gardens like a big black bear falling out of a tree.
Wanda was crouched, waiting for him. 'Sssh!’ she hissed. 'I just saw somebody walking around the side of the house.’
'We'll try to get in through the kitchens,’ Randolph suggested, brushing himself off. 'Waverley likes to eat late so they may still be open.’
'I'm surprised he didn't go to the ball. He doesn't usually miss it, does he?’
'He doesn't usually kidnap somebody like Michael either. I've been thinking about that, you know. I'm beginning to wonder if he doesn't want to use Michael for some devious scheme of his own. I mean, if he were thinking of having Michael killed, he would make sure that he stayed well away, wouldn't he? He'd probably go to the ball just to establish an alibi.’
They bent over and ran as quickly as they could through the undergrowth, pushing aside rhododendron branches and kicking away entanglements of creeper. At last they reached the bushes close to the northwest corner of the house. From there they would have to cross thirty yards of open driveway to reach the shadow of the kitchen wing.